Let Nothing Frighten You
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: Sequel to On That Night and A Fire into Many Flames Divided. This is my entry in the NFA Original Character challenge. On Halloween night, Tim returns to Father Charles' church, only things don't go the way he expected. Two chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is a two-shot that makes use of my OC Father Charles, a Catholic priest. He also appears in _On That Night_ and _A Fire into Many Flames Divided_. Basically, Tim and the team were in a serious car accident in _On That Night_ and Tim was the driver. Because of the guilt he felt, he ended up at Father Charles' church and Father Charles has helped him with the guilt he feels about the accident because Tony, Ziva and Gibbs were all seriously injured. That's all you need to know for this, but you can read the two oneshots that precede it if you'd like. I don't mind. :)

As with my last story, I received a lot of help from Nzie, but any errors that remain are my own.

**Disclaimer**: While Father Charles is my own creation, I lay no claim to NCIS, the characters or the franchise. I'm not making money off this story.

* * *

**Let Nothing Frighten You  
**by Enthusiastic Fish

**Chapter 1**

It would be a cold night tonight. In spite of the fact that the Metro area rarely got extremely cold, there had been a cold snap, and Father Charles knew that it would be cold. It being Halloween, he smiled as he imagined all the children forced to wear jackets over or under their costumes as they went trick-or-treating. There had been a trunk-or-treat earlier in the evening just outside the church. Father Charles knew that many were unlikely to give up the secular Halloween traditions and so he made sure that he helped shape the traditions to keep them away from the more dangerous side of Halloween, the times when people would allow themselves to dabble in parts of the pagan tradition of the holiday.

The kids, of course, didn't think about any of that. They were probably mostly thinking that they had a chance to get more candy because they could come here and then hit their neighborhoods after dark. Ah, well. If it gave them a connection to the church, no matter how tenuous, he would support it. There were limits, of course, but a simple little party for kids wasn't surpassing those limits. ...he hoped. No one had said anything against it so far...and he had enough people in his parish that he could rely on someone getting irate enough to report him if they were upset.

He had made the decision to hold Mass tonight. He knew it would be much smaller than most, but he had a few families who wanted some other way to celebrate the eve of All Saints Day. Except for those few who dabbled in seances and the like, Father Charles didn't feel that Halloween posed any harm to their mortal souls, but he could understand the worry and he was more than happy to help them do something more with their time. He also had more than a few who would _expect_ Mass tonight, and Father Charles wouldn't dare disappoint them. He knew he'd hear about it if he didn't. The Mass would be short, but he would leave the church open for those who wanted to pray afterwards. He himself had felt the need for a longer vigil and so would be in the church late, actually all night. He would wait and see if any others felt that need.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_Almighty Father,  
__Even though we walk  
__through the valley of  
__the shadow of death,  
__we fear no evil,  
__for Your Son  
__our Lord Jesus Christ,  
__has conquered  
__evil and death,  
__illuminating even the darkest valley.  
__Therefore, we beg you:  
__Protect us from the enemy,  
__Defend us from all evil,  
__and give us the grace,  
__to walk in the light of your Son,  
__who lives and reigns,  
__with you and the Holy Spirit,  
__one God, forever and ever. Amen."_

There was a wonderful spirit to the Mass. It was not well-attended (as he'd expected), but those who came were listening with quiet devotion. Even the few children who were there were on their best behavior. Not dressed in costumes, although most of the parents he had spoken to had said that they'd be going out trick-or-treating after the Mass. As he gave the readings, Father Charles had to admit that his mind was on two different topics. First, he was enjoying the preparation for All Saints Day, but second, he was considering the day of Halloween itself. He had gone back and forth on the holiday for many years.

At the end of the Mass, he announced that the church would be open all night for those who wished to pray in preparation for the feast of All Saints. While Easter was his favorite day to celebrate, he loved celebrating the saints. He had made time to study hagiography. In fact, it was his preferred method of relaxation, given the option. He had a number of books on the lives of various saints.

For now, he would take what time he had tonight to meditate and pray in preparation for the next day.

He walked back and removed his vestments and then returned to the front. When he got there, he saw a familiar figure lighting a candle. He smiled and walked over.

"Tim McGee," he said.

Tim turned and smiled, although he looked a bit ragged. There was a long cut across his forehead which had been stitched closed and there was bruising in the same area. His nose was a little misshapen as well. Not quite as bad as at Christmas, but it was bad enough.

"Evening, Father."

"What happened?"

Tim rolled his eyes a little.

"I fell. Or rather, I was pushed rather violently and didn't get the chance to break my fall...at least not with anything besides my face."

"It looks painful."

"It was. Doesn't hurt nearly as much now."

"May I ask the circumstances?"

"Pretty typical for me," Tim said. "Pursuit of a suspect, only Tony and I got separated. When I was coming back to regroup, the guy found me. We grappled a bit and he got a good shove in. I hit the edge of a metal grating with my forehead and only barely missed breaking my nose. Knocked me right out."

"When was this?"

"Last week."

"You seem to be feeling better than you must have been."

"I am. A _lot _better. I missed most of the first day after. Concussion. I was here for the Mass. It was nice."

"I'm surprised to see you on Halloween night, actually. I would have thought the holiday would keep you busy, even in the Navy."

"Normally, yes, but...with what happened before...I had a concussion then, too. There's apparently a risk of long-term effects if I go back too soon, especially if I were to get another knock on the head before all the symptoms are gone, and I still have headaches. Gibbs was there when the doctor was explaining it and he wouldn't even _listen _to me suggest that I come back quickly, not even at my desk. He's been...more cautious about stuff like this since...Christmas."

Tim took a breath, and Father Charles could see that there was still a bit of a shadow in regards to the car accident that had introduced them. Still, the shadow was much less and when he had first spoken, it had been almost absent. It was the mentioning now.

"Still having trouble?"

"Not nearly as much," Tim said, not bothering to pretend he didn't know what Father Charles meant. "Just sometimes I still get...a little worked up about it. You wouldn't even know it had happened now. Tony and Ziva are fine. Gibbs is fine."

"And you?"

Tim smiled. "Most of the time, I'm fine, too."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it."

"Do you do anything else to celebrate Halloween?" Tim asked.

"I'm going to keep a vigil tonight."

"All night?" Tim asked.

Father Charles smiled and nodded. "Yes."

"But...why?"

"In preparation for All Saints Day which is tomorrow."

"But do you really need to stay up all night?"

"I don't think your job is always operating on normal hours, correct?"

"Yeah, very correct."

"Even to the point of staying at work all night long?"

"Yeah, but that's only when it's absolutely necessary."

Father Charles smiled and put a gentle hand on Tim's shoulder.

"Exactly."

Tim gave him a skeptical look.

"Tim, you have, unfortunately, fallen into the same trap as many others before you and as many more will after."

"What trap is that?"

"The trap of feeling as though, because I am speaking of a religious activity, that it is automatically free of any obligations, that everything is optional and isn't _really_ important. My service is just as optional as yours when you go to work. It's just that my service doesn't involve pursuing suspects. It's about worshipping God and serving His people."

Tim flushed. "I didn't mean to insult you or..."

"Oh, I'm not insulted. Not at all. Just making a point."

"Father?"

Father Charles looked back over Tim's shoulder and saw one of his parish.

"Just a moment, Tim. I'll be back."

"Of course."

Tim sat down on one of the pews while Father Charles walked to the younger man. He was recently baptized and still a little uncertain about what he'd chosen.

"What can I do for you, Dallin?"

"I couldn't come for the Mass. I'm sorry. I just got off work."

"It's all right. That's fine."

"But...I wanted to ask..."

"What is it?"

"Halloween."

Father Charles smiled. "You're not condemned for enjoying the holiday."

Dallin fidgeted a little.

"It's just that I've read some things about Halloween being entirely secular and pagan and...and some of my friends have been asking and..."

Father Charles shook his head.

"Don't worry. Of course there are parts of the current perception of Halloween that you should avoid, seances, blood sacrifices and the extreme stuff. However, dressing up in a costume and going to a party is not wrong. Nor is trick-or-treating, although I think that you're probably too old for that."

Dallin smiled weakly.

"I just want to do it right."

"And God knows that. You'll mess up, and that's okay. That's why you can repent...but you don't need to worry about Halloween."

Dallin let out a breath.

"Okay. Thanks. Sorry to be a bother."

"You're not. Just relax and enjoy yourself."

"Thanks, Father."

"My pleasure."

Dallin left the church and Father Charles walked back to Tim.

"So, Tim, what are your plans for the rest of this Halloween night?"

"I don't know," Tim said. "I've been having a hard time taking the week off, and I know that there will be other things going on at work...and I have to sit around."

"Well, you don't _have_ to just sit around, you know," Father Charles said with a smile. "I'm sure you have other things you could be doing."

Tim laughed a little. "Yeah, I do. I'm just sulking. Would you call that a sin?"

"Taken to extremes, yes, but a few moments of self-indulgent self-pity are acceptable. I wouldn't even give you a Hail Mary as penance."

"Thanks. Happy Halloween. Enjoy your vigil."

Tim got up and shook Father Charles' hand. Then, he headed out of the church. Father Charles smiled after him. It was always nice to see Tim. Of course, he hoped to convince Tim to convert eventually, but regardless, he was happy that Tim kept coming when he could, that at a time when he didn't know what to do, he chose to make the trek out to this church to attend Mass.

He walked to the altar and knelt in prayer. He loved Mass. He loved helping and serving his flock, but there were times when he just basked in the holy space that he was privileged to oversee for a while.

He only had it to himself for a couple of minutes. He heard a sound from the back.

Father Charles stood up and looked back. A group of...costumed people were coming in (he guessed young adults by their sizes, and males by their voices), looking more than a little suspicious. They were all wearing masks, talking loudly. There was a hockey mask, a strange ghost mask, a frightening clown mask and a skull mask. None were particularly nice-looking. He was instantly on his guard. However, as he approached, he kept his manner pleasant.

"Good evening. Can I help you?" he asked.

The hockey mask started laughing. Unpleasant laughter.

"You seem a bit old for trick-or-treating, but I might be able to find something."

Then, the clown made himself much more unlikeable by pulling out a gun and pointing it at him.

"I think you _will_ find something, Father," he said. "Your life depends on it."

"I'll keep that in mind," Father Charles said, trying to keep himself calm without showing his fear. "Do you want me to put my hands in the air?"

"No, we want you to give us the money you have somewhere in here," the ghost mask said.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Father Charles said.

The clown aimed the gun at him.

"Wrong answer."

Father Charles thought that he was about to be killed and he started to pray for absolution, knowing that, if he was shot, he wouldn't have the chance to have another priest administer to him. He made the sign of the cross.

...and then, unexpectedly, the clown was thrown forward, his gun flying from his hand.

The reason for that quickly became obvious. Someone had tackled him. In the struggle, Father Charles couldn't tell who it was, but the fight didn't last long. Before Father Charles could even _think_ about trying to help, it was over as the other ghouls pulled the man away.

As soon as he was pulled to his feet, Father Charles gasped in surprise.

"Tim!"

Tim smiled a little but then focused on the invaders.

"Leave him alone," he said.

"Who's going to stop us? You?"

"I just did," Tim said, with a smile. "Maybe not permanently, but I did. This man is a priest! You're in a _church_! Are you really going to kill him?"

To Father Charles' surprise, that seemed to make the masked attackers pause.

Then, the moment passed and the ghost and the hockey mask twisted Tim's arm behind him and shoved him forward.

"Listen, just leave here and nothing more will happen," Tim said. "We haven't seen who you are, and we won't go after you. Just let us go and leave, and it will be fine."

The clown laughed derisively.

"Get back, to the altar, Father," the hockey mask ordered. "Away from the door. Let's not have any other people noticing." He pulled the front door closed.

Father Charles moved, as much because he didn't want anything to happen to Tim as because he was willing to do what they said. One of his continued weaknesses was his stubbornness. His mother had always said he was too stubborn to be a Catholic priest. He didn't like to submit to anyone. How could he be willing to submit to God? He had always said that he knew God would get everything right. He couldn't be so sure about people. And _these_ people were clearly people he shouldn't submit to.

When they reached the relatively-secluded altar holding the candles, the ghost mask shoved Tim against the wall, still with his arm twisted behind him.

"Give us the money and we'll leave you here," the hockey mask said.

"There are some coins in the donation box right there," Father Charles said. "You can take it."

The clown pointed the gun at him again.

"You've had a fundraiser. There's a lot more than that!"

"Not here," Father Charles said. "Most of that money is in the bank."

"Most. Not all."

Father Charles was glad that almost all of it _was_ in the bank, but there was still a fairly hefty sum still waiting to be deposited back in his office. There had been some generous offerings in the last couple of days.

"That money does not belong to you."

"It will once you give it to us."

"Father..." Tim said from his uncomfortable position against the wall.

"No, Tim. These men are not asking to steal from _me_. They're asking to steal from God. I can't allow that."

Tim struggled against the ghost mask.

The skull mask, who had been hanging back up to this point, came forward now and grabbed Father Charles by the arm and yanked him toward the altar where a few little candles were burning.

"Maybe we'll _make_ you tell us where it is," he said.

He started to force Father Charles' face toward the altar. Father Charles struggled to keep away from the lit candles.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tim break away from the ghost mask and lunge at the skull mask. The skull mask shoved Father Charles to the side. He fell to the floor as Tim tried to fight for an upper hand.

He might have made it, but the clown mask was grabbing the gun again. He looked ready to hit Tim on the head, rather than shoot him. Father Charles remembered what Tim had said about the possibility of serious, even permanent damage, if he sustained another head injury before healing from the most recent one. He leapt to his feet as quickly as he could and stepped in between Tim and the clown mask.

...so instead of hitting Tim, the gun came down on Father Charles' head. He fell to the floor, unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

There was a strange dislocation, a strange feeling as the darkness receded.

"Father? Father Charles?"

Father Charles opened his eyes and looked around...but things were blurry and his head ached more than a little. He blinked a few times and then let his eyes close. It was easier.

"Father Charles, can you hear me?"

Father Charles struggled to wake up.

"Father? Say something. Please?"

"Happy...Halloween?" Father Charles said uncertainly.

There was some relieved laughter.

"I'll take that. How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better." He got his eyes open and realized that his arms were both above his head. "And I'm thinking it's worse than I thought before."

"Well, it's pretty bad," Tim said. "But it could have been a lot worse."

Father Charles looked over. Tim was tied to the railing by the votive candles. He himself was tied to the same railing but not close enough to touch.

"What happened?"

"After Bozo hit you with the gun, Skeletor and the Scream guy took off. Michael and Bozo tied me to the railing and then, you, too. Then, they ran. We're stuck here until someone comes in here. Expecting anyone tonight?"

"Not particularly. I was...assuming that...I'd be in the church alone most of the night. I'm not sure I know all the names you gave," Father Charles admitted.

Tim smiled. "Bozo the clown. Generic. Skeletor from the old He-Man cartoons. I was a fan. Scream...a movie. And Michael from the _Halloween_ movies."

Father Charles laughed a little and winced at the throbbing in his head.

"And here I was just thinking of them...as a ghost, clown, skull and hockey mask."

Tim laughed in return.

"It's Tony's fault. He likes movies and forces me to watch them with him sometimes." Then, he sighed and looked at the altar. "I tried to get loose, but I'm so close to those candles. I'm afraid I'd knock it over and the last thing I want to do is burn down your church."

"Thank you," Father Charles said. He struggled to sit up, but he couldn't. He didn't know if it was because of how he was tied to the railing or if the knock on his head had discombobulated him too much. He gave up and got his head so that it could at least lean relatively comfortably against the railing.

"Man, I have the _worst_ luck," Tim said. "I almost had them both times, but... How did _you _get hit? I didn't see."

"He was about to hit you," Father Charles said. "After what you told me, I wasn't going to risk another head injury."

Tim sighed.

"Father..."

He could hear it. It must be hard-wired into Tim's head to feel guilty about things.

"Now, Tim, I won't hear of you taking the blame for this."

"But..."

"No! You had no control over what _they_ chose or what _I_ chose. And if you have bad luck, I think I must have the best luck in the world."

"Why do you say that?"

He looked at Tim.

"Because you were there when I needed help. I had started to pray to God for mercy. I was thinking I was about to die and there would have been no one to give me absolution. But instead of granting me mercy in death, God sent me an angel of mercy to save my life."

Tim flushed.

"Anyone would have done what I did," he mumbled.

"Not necessarily, and regardless, what you did was save me. At a moment when I expected nothing more than death, I had life granted to me again. That is a miracle."

Tim shrugged.

"Accept it, Tim. You were a tool in God's hands. Now, you _have_ to convert."

Tim laughed and relaxed a little. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Ha! Success!" Father Charles said.

"What do you mean? I didn't say I _would_."

"Yes, but you weakened enough to entertain the idea. If I keep this up, you'll be one of the elect in no time."

"Oh, great. Leave it to me to encourage you."

"It doesn't take much."

"I can see that. Are you feeling all right?"

"Not particularly," Father Charles said honestly. "My head aches like there's no tomorrow. The floor is pretty hard. I'm not as young as I used to be and I'm not used to being tied to a railing. I've been in better situations."

"Me, too. They took my phone, even. I tried calling out, but there didn't seem to be anyone around."

"Why were _you_ still here?" Father Charles asked. "I thought you'd gone."

"Oh...simple enough. I went out to go home and remembered that I'd taken a taxi. I was just about to call for one when I saw those guys come inside. I was a little worried." Tim shook his head and stared at the ceiling. "If _only_ I had thought enough to call someone first. Why did I just rush in here?"

"Because my life was on the line," Father Charles said.

"You're telling me to drop it?"

"More or less."

Tim sighed one more time.

"So...if we're stuck here all night long... what do we do?"

"Well, this isn't my normal posture for prayer and meditation, but I can hold a vigil lying on the floor as well as I can anywhere else. ...and then, if someone comes in, they might hear us and come and get us free."

"You have a concussion, too. You probably shouldn't go to sleep. My doctor said that's mostly not true, but better safe than sorry."

"All right." Father Charles winced a little as he shifted position. He thought he might have bruised something when he fell...something besides his head.

"So...you were saying something about... Saints Day, or something?" Tim asked.

Father Charles shifted again so that he could look at Tim more or less comfortably.

"All Saints Day. It's November first."

"Well, I think it might be after midnight now, but I don't know. They took my watch, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too. It was an expensive watch, but it's better than being dead."

"True. Well, if it's the first, then, I'll give you an education. You know anything about hagiography?"

"No. I don't even know what that is," Tim said.

"It's the writings of or about the saints."

"Okay. Like... St. Michael or St. Christopher?"

"Yes, although there are other kinds of saints."

"Other kinds? Really?"

Well, all who are in heaven with God are considered saints, everyone who has been purified. All Saints Day is about celebrating the saints you're familiar with, but it's also about celebrating the entire community, the communion of saints. It's a celebration of all these links to these people and to God."

"I didn't know about that."

Father Charles smiled. "I'm not surprised. But the saints you know...well, I love reading about them. Some are less certain than others, but in some ways, it lets you see them as real people, not just saints."

"So...while we're both stuck here," Tim said, looking around the empty church, "you have a captive audience."

Father Charles smiled.

"I do. You're right! And since I know that Deacon James should be here very early tomorrow...or this morning, I think we both can wait."

"You're taking this very calmly."

"Did they get the money?"

"No. They just ran out."

"Then, in spite of my concussion, we're doing quite well. Obviously, I'm assuming there's no serious internal injury on my part. I'm not really thinking as clearly as I'd like to, but we're both alive, the money is safe..."

"What's it for?"

"The church desperately needs a new roof. It's started leaking. So we decided to do a fundraiser. It's like the parish suddenly realized that it was necessary and we've done very well. Soon, we'll have enough to get the bids and get the work going, hopefully before the next heavy storm."

"Good luck," Tim said.

"I hope so."

Father Charles tried to shift to a more comfortable position. No good. The floor was still hard. His head still _really_ hurt, and the rest of him still ached.

"I suppose this is how some of the early martyrs felt...only they knew their end would be death," he said softly.

"Like who?" Tim asked.

"Actually, there are six saints named Timothy."

"Well, none of them are me," Tim said. "I'm definitely no saint."

"Obviously, but one of them, St. Timothy of Antinoe, he _and_ his wife were martyred."

"Why?"

"During the persecutions of Diocletian. St. Timothy refused to tell them where he had hidden the scriptures. They tortured him and then killed him and his wife."

"That's awful. I guess copies of the scriptures would have been more valuable back then."

"Much more. When you have to make each copy by hand...and they're considered worth destroying, they're worth protecting, too. The St. Timothy from the Bible was also martyred. He was stoned to death. He had objected to the celebration of a pagan festival. The early history of Christianity is one of persecution. Many were killed simply for being Christian. Some hid their beliefs. Others broadcast them. Some died, some lived."

"I can understand...dying for a cause, but..."

"You can't identify with this cause."

"I guess I can't. I just have never been that...devoted to a religious belief."

Father Charles smiled. "I can understand that. I wasn't always a priest, you know. I wasn't born in a cloister."

"What led to it?" Tim asked.

"Like many others, I felt a call. It's hard to explain if you've never felt it. I finished school and felt like...there was something I was meant to do, something I needed to do with my life that was more than punching a time clock. I'd been raised Catholic and attended most weeks, but I went to church that Sunday and I realized that I never wanted to leave. It was exactly where I wanted to be."

"Can you feel that about other things?"

"Of course. I would assume that most people have a place they feel like they need to be."

"That's how I always felt about NCIS," Tim said. "Part of it was selfish on my part, but even when there was hazing, even when people looked down on me for being atypical...I never wanted to go anywhere else."

"Sounds like a calling to me, not religious, per se, but a calling."

Tim was quiet for a few minutes. It was easier for him to stare at the ceiling with the way his hands were tied. Father Charles liked to give people cause to think and the time to do so. He let the silence linger for a little longer...which let his headache reassert itself. To distract himself from the ache, he thought about the next saint story he would tell Tim. Almost without thought, St. Teresa of Avila arose in his mind.

"There's a saint from Spain in the sixteenth century. Her name is Teresa of Avila. She is credited, along with St. John of the Cross, with founding the Discalced Carmelites, nuns who took a vow of poverty and were recommitted to a simple, penitent life. She had a hard time. Her mother died when she was young. She suffered from illnesses, including the one that eventually ended her life. She was from a wealthy family and yet gave that up to be a nun. It wasn't easy for her. She felt that she was a sinner because of the times in her life when her religious devotion wasn't quite so strong."

"Doesn't everyone have the option, though?" Tim asked, almost sounding affronted. "I mean...can't they choose what to do? Does it have to be from birth? It doesn't make sense to assume that they'd be perfect."

"Of all the saints, you should understand her feeling of not thinking you're good enough, Tim," Father Charles said. "It's a natural reaction. Once you've done better, you look back and think about how much more you _could_ have done. Don't you know that feeling?"

Tim flushed but didn't say anything.

"She had times when she doubted some of her own experiences because of what others said to her. It's said that once, in the midst of some discouragement, she brought her troubles to God and He told her, 'That's how I always treat my friends.' She said, 'That must be why you have so few friends.'"

Tim laughed. "I can go along with that."

"I thought you might. However, she rededicated her life to God. In her desire to serve God better, she traveled through Spain, establishing convents. It was a hard life and easily could have contributed to her final illness. But in spite of the difficulties she faced in life, she greeted death with calm and love for God."

Again, silence. Father Charles let that silence stay for a few minutes. Then, he again, broke it.

"Let nothing disturb you,  
Let nothing frighten you,  
All things are passing;  
God never changes.  
Patience gains all things.  
One who has God wants nothing.  
God alone suffices."

"That's beautiful," Tim said softly.

"It's a prayer St. Teresa wrote."

Another long silence.

"It's not always about how easy life is. In fact, it's usually not about that. It's about seeing that there's more."

"And right now?" Tim asked.

Father Charles chuckled.

"Right now... as I said in the Mass, I fear no evil."

"I'm kind of envious of your outlook."

"It's taken me years to get to this point. If you're not there yet, it's no weakness. _I'm _not consistently. Maybe I can credit this to my concussion."

"That's not my experience with concussions. They made my attitude worse, not better. But you're definitely a better person than I am."

"No. It's not about comparing each other. You'll always find something you're not good at, something you could improve. Look at yourself and what you want from yourself, what you can achieve."

"Are you sure you really got hit on the head?" Tim asked. "You sure are speaking clearly."

"That's because I'm telling you things I know. Maybe God is using me as a messenger for you."

"So...is there anyone you can call on to get us out of this before morning?"

"Well, not if that's not meant to be, but I can try." Father Charles leaned back and closed his eyes. "'St. Jude, hope of the hopeless, pray for us.'"

"Maybe that's a little too far for our situation. I don't think we're hopeless," Tim said.

There was a lightness in his voice, but he wasn't being dismissive. In spite of the knowledge that someone would come and find them there eventually, there was still a feeling of fear and anxiety about being tied up and kept from escaping. While it might also be a bit of an exaggeration, there was someone else who came to his mind.

"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in the battle.  
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.  
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,  
and do thou, o Prince of the Heavenly Host,  
thrust into Hell all the evil spirits that prowl about the world,  
seeking the ruin of souls. Amen."

Tim was quiet again, but then, there was a shame-faced smile.

"What?"

"Is it wrong of me to be thinking about the guys who came in here and hoping that I could interpret the prayer literally?"

"Maybe a little bit. God is the only judge, but I don't expect perfection of you...even if you do of yourself."

Tim shifted position and hit against the table holding the candles. They shook ominously. He stilled and they calmed.

"Okay. I'm not moving anymore. Any more stories?"

"There are always more."

Through the succeeding hours, Father Charles shared stories of the saints. It had been his plan to spend time reflecting on the saints anyway. This would suffice. After a while, the conversation fell away and they were sitting on the floor in silence.

Finally, when they were both tired and ready to droop and sleep, there was a sound outside.

Voices. People talking. Father Charles managed to rouse himself a bit. He saw Tim try to sit up.

"You know them?" Father Charles asked.

"I think so," Tim said.

Three people came into the church, flipping on the lights.

"Boss!" Tim called.

The three people turned.

"McGee!"

They ran over and Father Charles realized that he was seeing Tim's team. These were the people whose injuries had driven Tim to this church the first time.

"What happened?" one of them asked.

Tim smiled. "This is Father Charles," he said. "Father Charles, this is Tony, Ziva and Gibbs. What are you doing here?"

Ziva pulled out a knife much larger than Father Charles had expected to see and she sliced through the ties. Then, she helped Tim disentangle himself from the candle altar. Tony helped Father Charles sit up.

"Looks like a hard knock, Father."

"It was. I didn't enjoy it," he said.

Tony smiled.

"We were worried about you, McGee," Ziva said. "We called and you did not answer. All night long."

"We went to your place after work and you weren't there. We've been looking for you," Tony said. "Gibbs is the one who suggested you might be here."

Tim looked at Father Charles.

"Are you okay, Father?"

"I'll be fine...later. Not now. I'd like to get a few hours of sleep before the celebration of All Saints Day."

"Are you sure someone can't do it for you?" Tim asked.

"Maybe they could, but unless I _have_ to, I'll be leading it."

"What happened?" Gibbs asked.

"Some guys came in and tried to rob the church," Tim said. "I happened to be here and tried to stop them."

"And _did_ stop them," Father Charles corrected. "He saved my life."

"You took a hit for me," Tim said.

"So we're even. Don't act like you did nothing."

Tim smiled and nodded reluctantly. They got the police there and an ambulance to check Father Charles. He agreed to be examined more thoroughly at the hospital, but he really wanted to be back for Mass. Yes, someone else could do it for him, but he hadn't missed Mass since he'd been the priest here and he didn't want to start now.

It took some doing, but in the end, after getting a couple of stitches, he convinced the doctors that he would be fine and that he would spend time resting after the Mass. So he returned to his church. The police had investigated and got statements. Deacon James was surprised at what had happened in the night and insisted on doing most of the running around.

Then, the moment came and Father Charles began the Mass. As he looked out over his flock, he saw not only Tim but also his team all sitting together at the back of the church. He smiled and began the service.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

After Mass and saying good-bye to everyone, Father Charles could admit that he was tired. So he was secretly looking forward to taking the rest of the afternoon off. But first, he wanted to speak to one of his flock.

The rest of his team had left already, perhaps waiting outside, but Tim was back at the candles.

"Tim?"

Tim turned. "I thought you were going to take the rest of the day off."

"I am. I just wanted to thank you for being there today."

"You already did that," Tim said.

"I know, but this time, I want to thank you and have you accept it."

"I'm working on it."

"Good. Now, while you're finishing _your_ recovery, I have something for you. You can bring it back when you're done."

He handed Tim the autobiography of Teresa of Avila.

"Take some time to get to know a saint. I think the two of you might have some things in common."

"And then?" Tim asked with a grin.

"Then...we'll see how much closer you are to being what you're supposed to be."

"A Catholic, you mean?"

"We're getting you there," Father Charles said. "I have the time and we could only be better with your membership."

"I'll keep that in mind, Father."

Tim lit a candle, put some money in the donation box and then left.

Before he headed for his bed to rest, Father Charles looked back at the altar and then up toward heaven.

"That's a good man, there. Whatever else he is. Thank you for leading him here."

FINIS!


End file.
